


but our lives don't collide

by loganes



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-06
Updated: 2015-11-06
Packaged: 2018-04-30 05:11:46
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,729
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5151515
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/loganes/pseuds/loganes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Neve-- listen this is really messy and bad and disorganized but I wrote it in like this time-travel induced haze of depression about scorpeo lmao. And then I added a happy(ish) ending for you, because I'm weak.</p>
    </blockquote>





	but our lives don't collide

**Author's Note:**

> Neve-- listen this is really messy and bad and disorganized but I wrote it in like this time-travel induced haze of depression about scorpeo lmao. And then I added a happy(ish) ending for you, because I'm weak.

He doesn’t believe in fate. He certainly doesn’t believe in blaming reality on some larger scheme to play out, needs his own agency far too much for that. But when he gets a letter from Ian McAlister, just coordinates and a ‘ _you should see this_ ’ scribbled haphazardly below, it’s suddenly hard to swallow, the idea that none of this was meant to be. Why else, he thinks, would a less-than-friend contact him so many years later, at an address he shouldn’t even know? Theo has always been curious, but that doesn’t quite explain the haste, explain why he apparates into the unknown less than three minutes later with nothing but the piece of paper and his wand. 

Disoriented, but only slightly, he straightens and scans his surroundings. He’s standing just outside the door of a shop; he’d think it closed if not for the light flickering in its depths, and he figures some enchantment or another must have kept him from apparating directly inside. A brisk wind chills him through his clothes, and he shudders, squinting into the dusk at a sign; a foreign language tells him nothing, looks Polish, he thinks. Ian wouldn’t have sent him here for nothing, that he believes, so he shoulders the door in front of him open, lets it fall shut behind him with a snick. 

For a moment, it seems no one’s there, but then he hears a muffled rustling toward the back and steels himself, following the sound until he comes upon an older man, mid-sixties perhaps, crouched behind a bookshelf. He doesn’t start at Theo’s presence, instead proceeds to ignore him for another minute and a half, and, well— Theo’s never been a patient guy. “Yeah, excuse me,” he starts, satisfied when the man finally stands and stares him down. Something in him wants to shrink away from the gaze, but he doesn’t, holds it carefully until the man speaks.

“I thought you might come ‘round soon,” he says, voice accented, and that’s— he wonders what Ian told him, what he found, why the hell he’s here in the first place.

“Then you know more than I do,” he says carefully, testing. 

Another second of silence, then, “Alright. Follow me,” the man says, almost reluctant, almost regretful. Theo feels uncomfortably open, laid bare when they’ve barely spoken, but complies anyway, trailing a few steps behind as the man rounds a corner. They end up in a makeshift workshop, full of trinkets and unfinished projects with bubbled glass windows for walls; the shop looks distorted and yellowed when he peers through them. The man shuffles around a bit until he finds what he’s looking for, and Theo feels like his heart’s in his throat, beating wildly, suddenly afraid.

“What—” he starts, but cuts himself off when he glances at what the man holds out to him.

It’s a Time-Turner, though not one like he’s seen before; the brass is worn and the inscriptions aren’t in Latin, instead in some language he can’t quite pick out (which, of course, frustrates him in a distant, prideful way). He reaches out, hesitant, and takes it in hand when he’s sure it’s alright. It’s surprisingly light—he’s never held one, but somehow he’s always assumed they would be heavy, perhaps with the weight of their capabilities. “I thought,” he starts, voice hoarse, “I thought all of these were destroyed.” 

The man smiles thinly. “No, not all.”

Theo nobly refrains from making a snide comment at that, and turns the Time-Turner over in his palm. “Why— what did McAlister say to you, about me?” he says, nervous in a different way, because whatever Ian thought he could do with this… a million options unfold before him in his mind, countless other paths to take, ones he could’ve taken years ago, and he thinks about Azkaban and sectumsempra and quiet hallways and useless murders, and knows what Ian meant.

 “Enough,” the man shrugs. “I believe that you could use it. That you need it, even, and I have never loaned it out lightly.” He stresses _loaned_ in a way that makes Theo wonder how many times this man has traveled back, or forward; what he’s changed.

“What language is this?” he asks quietly.

“Armenian. Not so common, I know…”

Theo doesn’t say anything else, just waits, trying to keep his hands from trembling. He’s twenty-four and not for this world anymore, been to hell and back and caused a lot of damage along the way, and he’s so tired. Maybe Ian knows that. 

“There are rules,” the man says then. 

Theo waves a hand. “I know. Is it the same as others? The inscription, I mean.”

“More or less. This one… it’s enchanted somewhat differently, so that you don’t need to turn it a certain number of times to reach a point. You’ll just have to think of where and when you want to be. Almost like traveling by Floo,” he says, adding a wry smile.

Theo nods slowly, swallowing around the lump in his throat. “Okay,” he says. “Okay. What, can I, uh—” he fumbles over the words, tongue clumsy for once in his life. “Can I go now? Here?”

“If you wish. I will be closing the shop in an hour, but I’ll leave the back light on for your return.” The man starts toward the door of the workshop.

“Wait. Do you need, ah, compensation for this? Anything?”

The man’s lips widen, all teeth. “We shall figure that out when you get back. Be careful, Theo Mathers,” he says, and then he’s leaving, and Theo is silent, a shudder passing through him.

_Where and when_. There’s so much he wishes he could undo, and he feels almost sick thinking about it, alone in this chilly room. How far back does he need to travel to fix it, to fix everything, if he even can? He sucks in a breath and thinks about Evie, but—but. It was different with her, better in that _he_ was better, and that’s not far enough. He wouldn’t change anything, wouldn’t stay with her anyway, because she still deserves better, he’s well aware. Scraping his teeth over his bottom lip, he grips the back of a chair, chain and Time-Turner tangled up in one hand. Fuck, he’s cold and _afraid_ , and it reminds him so much of Azkaban for a second that he has to close his eyes and just breathe in the scent of wood and metal and care. No Dementors here, he tells himself, a mantra until he feels like it’s true. And finally, he lets him think about Scorp, and knows where he has to go, what he needs to stop more than anything. 

He closes his eyes, visualizes, and turns the little sphere in his hand once.

 

 

When he opens his eyes, he’s standing in an empty corridor of Hogwarts, light streaming through dusty glass, and he’s not sure what time it is. A rush of _home_ comes at him so strong his knees almost buckle, and he reaches a hand out to steady himself, fingers catching on rough stone. “Fuck,” he whispers, though no one’s in this hall, no one can hear him. He knows this day too well, has worn it like prison-garb, carried it on his shoulders for years. Knows that at some point Scorp will sneak out of Albus’ bed, knows that he himself is somewhere in the depths of the library, exhausted and wired and angry. 

It’s funny, he thinks, how much time has healed his rage, and when he searches for it now, he can’t reach it, can’t blame Scorp for turning to someone else. It’s a distant hurt, one he thinks he deserves, and his hand shakes when he finally feels steady enough to let it fall to his side. _There are rules,_ he hears the man say in his head, an echo. Don’t let anyone see you, that’s one of them. But— Theo has never been good at following rules. So he starts walking in the direction of Slytherin, feet heavy and sure.

To be alone with his thoughts here is a strange kind of torture, memories a cacophony of misery in his head, and part of him hates Ian for this, for making the impossible possible. Outside it’s gray, no sun to speak of, he remembers, and it’s cold here too. Perhaps, he thinks, the walk will give him enough time to steel himself, to figure out what he has to do to stop it, but he doesn’t get far, of course he doesn’t.

Because there’s Scorp, bed-rumpled and hazy down the hall but awake and in front of him, looking so young, so goddamn innocent, and Theo’s heart is thunderous in his aching chest. 

He doesn’t run, but it’s a near thing, and when they reach each other, a mutual journey, still magnetic even with this absurd distance between them, Scorp looks at him, fond at first and then confused, and Theo hates the way it changes his face, hates the way he couldn’t recognize it when he had the chance.

“You,” Scorp starts, voice a morning-rasp, “you look… strange. Not right.”

It’s hard to breathe for a second, standing so close to him, and he leans in unconsciously, seeking… he doesn’t know what, anymore, but it’s certainly not his to take, so he forces himself back. He wonders if his extra years show so clearly on his face, if he looks as weary on the outside as he feels within. 

“I had to come back,” he whispers, can’t help the words.

“What? But you…” Scorp frowns, fingers jerking by his side like he means to reach out, but aborts the motion. “Didn’t think you would be back, after last night,” and now Theo’s confused, has to think back deeper to realize Albus was truly involved in all of this too, to realize that Scorp thinks this is past-him. He makes a face, tries to smile but knows it comes out broken. Scorp looks guilty, suddenly, and god, that’s not what Theo wants, not what he’s here for.

“Don’t worry about it,” he says, almost frustrated. “I just needed to see you,” he admits, and the shock on Scorp’s face brings him back somewhat; there’s no way he’d have admitted that at seventeen, couldn’t have forced the words out if he’d had a dementor by his side ready to give him the Kiss. 

“What’s wrong with you,” Scorp says slowly, narrowing his eyes, and then he does close the distance, daring to brush three fingers from Theo’s cheek to his jaw. It takes everything in him to hide the shiver that runs through him at that; he doesn’t quite succeed, he thinks, what with how Scorp steps closer after. 

“Nothing. Nothing, I’m just…” Theo glances around the hall, making sure they’re still alone. “It’s complicated. I wanted, though, I wanted to say _sorry_.” The words tumble forth unbidden, out of his control, but god, it’s true. “Please, Scorp,” he murmurs, and then shakes his head, thinks _fuck it_ , thinks _I’ll take this while I can_ , and wraps his arms around Scorp, curling round his back until Scorp falls into it, arms some kind of safety around Theo’s neck, a hand on the back of his head like a question. 

He turns his face into Scorp’s shoulder, whispers _I’m sorry_ until they’re the only words he knows, doesn’t realizes he’s shaking until he hears Scorp’s hushed, confused reassurances. Biting his lip, his fingers clutch in Scorp’s shirt, his only anchor, and he tries to breathe but it’s erratic. “I don’t want to leave,” he chokes out, so tired, so afraid, sick of holding his emotions like grenades. “Forgive me,” he says, but that’s not what he wants, what he cares about, really. Just wants to rewind, to live here and now and do it differently. _There are rules_. Slowly, slowly, he unclenches his fingers, lets Scorp’s shirt fall out of his grip, and makes himself back out of Scorp’s embrace, dragging a hand across his face. 

“Theo,” Scorp says, quiet to match the corridor, “you know I’d choose you. I’d choose you a thousand times.”

Something shatters in him. Scorp doesn’t know, doesn’t realize that later today Theo will try to kill him, will nearly succeed. Everything rises in him, bile and worse, and then he turns, vomiting on the floor behind him. Scorp lets out a cut off shout, grabbing Theo’s shoulder to hold him up until he’s finished. Theo can’t do this, can’t act like things could be okay, not when he doesn’t even know if he can fix it, so he jerks back, out of Scorp’s grip, waves his wand haphazardly to clean up the mess he left. “I know,” he says, even if he doesn’t believe it. “I’d choose you too,” he says. Then he turns and walks away, opposite way down the hall, and tries not to hate it when Scorp doesn’t come after him.

He needs a second to think, to figure this out, and he blinks away his misery for the moment as he heads toward the Great Hall, the school finally waking up. 

“What the hell, Mathers, ten minutes ago you were three floors away working on homework,” someone says from behind him, and he whirls around to face Fred fucking Weasley. It’s incredible, really, how familiar it feels, and he pastes an ugly smirk on his face. “I learned how to apparate on school grounds,” he says snottily, a pretty believable lie, he thinks, and starts to walk away, ignoring it when Weasley calls after him.

He doesn’t stop moving until he reaches the lake, slumping against the thick trunk of a tree. Seven years gone and it hits him like a brick, how good everything was until he fucked it up, his goddamn pride more in control of him than the other way around, a sick kind of irony. “What am I doing here,” he says aloud, no one to hear him, but it’s his own fault; he chose this place, this time, should have been prepared to revisit the worst day of his life. Ha. 

The problem isn’t the when and where, though, it’s the _how_ , and briefly he curses Ian for the fucking lack of direction, thanks very much, just some fucking coordinates and intuition that Theo is still too curious for his own good. What does he even know about Time-Turners, anyway? It wasn’t like they’d come up in his obsessive horcrux research years back, and at that point they were all believed destroyed in the Department of Mysteries; if he’d had a use, perhaps he would’ve looked into it, but seventeen-year-old Theo thought he held the world in his palm, had no time or patience for stories of past improbabilities, more preoccupied with the future anyway. 

Letting out a bitter laugh, he scrubs a hand over his face, pressing the heel of his palm against his right eye until it hurts. He knows he’s not supposed to let anyone see him, but he’s broken that rule twice already, and he lied, about knowing the rules. He has no idea how this works, what he can do, what he can’t, just knows that he has to stop himself from crossing that line—

 

—his mind is a blur of past, present, future, can’t keep track—

 

—he hears someone yell, distantly, and it hits him like a shock; he doesn’t know how much time has passed—

 

—“Mathers has gone fucking _nuts_ ”—

 

—he can’t be too late. He’s running, terrified, adrenaline spiking through him, desperate to just _get there in time_. Truly, he doesn’t give a shit what rules he’s breaking, doesn’t care how many see him, he just needs to stop it.

Already the chips are falling into place, though, and: he doesn’t believe in fate, but that doesn’t matter if he’s a pawn anyway. His breath comes harsh and erratic as he tries to find the right goddamn spot, and then he’s there, suddenly, as if visualizing it brought it to him. _My use and value unto you are gauged by what you have to do_. That’s the inscription on most Time-Turners, anyway, but his isn’t like _most_ , of course it’s not, and he’s stopped short at the sight of a younger version of himself, pointing a wand at—at the love of his life. _Don’t be sick again_ , he pleads with himself in the split second it takes before either of them notice him. 

“What the _fuck_ ,” past-Theo spits out, and now he’s pointing a wand at himself, so Theo throws his hands up, tries to put himself back in those shoes of wrath and envy, figure out what he could say to diffuse _himself_ , for god’s sake. 

“Stop,” he says instead, ever eloquent, and at least it’s the most hopeless and desperate he’s ever sounded. And, still a coward, he can’t bring himself to look at Scorp, who he’s stepped in front of. “Don’t do it. Don’t, look, I know it hurts, I _know_ how badly you want to transfer that to someone else, especially him, but it doesn’t help. Believe me, _it doesn’t help_ ,” he pleads, nonsensical voice breaking. “There’s just years of regret and guilt and misery. There’s no way out of that, and you—we—we’re not going to be the greatest wizard who ever lived, we’re not even going to be _great_ , we’re going to _rot in Azkaban_ —”

But. It’s the wrong thing to say, and he knows as soon as it’s left his mouth that the Theo standing before him will take that as a challenge, not a threat, and wildly he imagines himself taking the curse instead of Scorp, simply ceasing to exist in this moment. _There are rules_. 

“Liar,” past-Theo says, so casual, like he’s not fazed by the altered reality of encountering himself.

Of course he can’t stop it, he realizes. He’s never been able to save a life; he’s always been on the other end. 

It’s almost religious, watching his own face contort with the snarled curse, and then turning, forced by a hand, to watch Scorp fall into his own blood, all from the outside. Then he scrambles for the Time-Turner, because he can’t _do this again_ , worse now because he knows all he’s lost.

 

 

As soon as he’s back in the workshop he vomits again, on his hands and knees already, tears pricking at the sides of his eyes from the force of it. He remains there for almost ten minutes, until the nausea begins to pass and he’s confident he can move again, and then he pushes himself to his feet. Finding a scrap of paper is easy, though the quill is harder to locate; he manages, and scrawls a message to Ian. _I didn’t think you hated me that much, but I suppose I’ll have to reevaluate. Fuck you._

Not a lie; he’d trusted McAlister, once upon a time, and to have that ripped from under him is a different kind of betrayal, but new again. Theo doesn’t appreciate the game, nor did he sign up to be the player. He resolves to find an owl once there’s real daylight, not just the sky lightening from black to deep blue, and settles in against the wall, letting it support the weight of his body. So, so tired. Exhausted, really, with fresh sorrow. He hunches into himself as sleep takes him.

 

 

A hand jostles him awake, which, honestly, Theo needs to work on sleeping so deeply in potential enemy territory. Then everything comes rushing back, a second set of memories to pair with the first, and Theo doesn’t even want a reply from Ian, just wants to never hear from him again.

He slits an eye.

Blond hair, he thinks crazily, reaching for it, prepared for his fingers to close around nothing. Only they don’t, and he opens both of his eyes, then, because either he’s dreaming or Scorp is crouching over him. It feels like there’s a hand on his shoulder, so Theo reaches up, grasps it in his own, half to make sure this is real.

“Hi,” Scorp says.

Theo doesn’t let go of his hand. “Hi,” he rasps. It should feel anticlimactic. He doesn’t understand why Scorp is here to begin with, unless he’s fucking _dead_ somehow, and wouldn’t that be the richest, finally kicking it by himself in Poland. “What—”

Scorp’s lips are on his, cutting him off, and Theo gasps into it, mouth falling open. “I had to watch you— _again_ — ” he says brokenly, against Scorp’s mouth, couldn’t pull away even if he wanted to because Scorp’s holding him so tightly. 

“I know,” Scorp says, some kind of incredulous laugh huffing warmth onto Theo’s lips. “I know, you fucking idiot, I _felt_ it.”

Theo pulls back enough at that to make a confused face, because he still doesn’t understand. His hands are tangled in Scorp’s hair somehow, seven years too late; Scorp is in _Poland_ , with him, in the back of this tiny shop, and he _doesn’t understand_. 

“Horcrux,” Scorp says simply, as if it’s ever been simple between them. He scans Theo’s face, and Theo lets the vulnerability wash over him, accepts it for what it is. 

“Did Ian…” he starts.

“I think,” Scorp interrupts, softly, “I think he just helped you make a choice.”

Theo looks down at the Time-Turner, discarded on the floor next to him, and thinks about McAlister’s relationship with Evie, about _when and where_. “He thought I’d choose her,” he says slowly, eyes catching Scorp’s in a half-daze, and god, he can’t look away. “Scorp, he told me I had to choose when and where, it was that easy, and I thought I could stop it if I went back far enough.” It’s not much of an explanation, but he thinks Scorp will get it anyway.

“It wasn’t about changing the past,” Scorp says, an agreement, and when he presses his forehead to Theo’s all the air leaves Theo’s chest. He’s still got his hands in the hair at the nape of Scorp’s neck, curled there like he’s hanging onto a ladder. 

“McAllister probably wasn’t expecting this,” Theo mumbles, lips brushing against Scorp’s like a lullaby. “But I don’t care.”

He kisses Scorp again because he can. Because it’s seven years too late, and he doesn’t believe in fate.


End file.
